


Worth A Shot

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wade & Nate Are Horrible Neighbours, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: It's worth a shot, or two, and maybe one more...To the head.Alternatively - Wade's having a bad day. He meets up with Vanessa and then deals with Nate.





	Worth A Shot

**Author's Note:**

> This work deals with suicide and mental health issues. If these subjects trigger you or generally make you uncomfortable, please turn back now.
> 
> Self-edited so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> I'm not sure if or where this fic would fit into a timeline, but Nate and Wade are living together. This universe might be expanded at a later date, but for now this is a standalone of sorts. A snapshot in time, really.

“Oh, Wade,” Vanessa sighs. She pushes her hand through the barrier and reaches up on her tiptoes to cup his cheek. The familiarity of the movement makes his chest ache, compounding the tight, twisting sensation of being so close and unable to hold her. He wants to hold her.  
  
“I miss you,” Wade whispers, leaning into her touch, nuzzling her hand like a cat. He really, fucking, misses her. A piece of him has been cut off and will never grow back; a hole in his body where something vital used to be but isn’t anymore. And he’s apparently saying this shit outloud, because Vanessa’s face screws up in the way it always does when he’s upset or hurting. Her dark, dark eyes go soft and her brows slant and that perfect cupid’s bow pops when she purses her lips.   
  
“I know. I miss you too, baby. So much. But there’s gonna be t-”   
  
Wade cuts her off, “Time for us. Later. Theoretically at the end of the universe. Yeah, I know, babe.”   
  
Okay, he feels a little bad for that one. It’s kinda rude, and maybe speaks to how much he’s been “visiting” her that Wade can predict what she’s going to say. And okay, yeah, it was kinda dickish of him to take his anger and bitter resentment over the fact that he can’t stay dead out on her. Especially considering, though Wade knows he doesn’t have to remind you because you totally watched the first movie, that she had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with Francis or Weapon X or anything like it.

Vanessa purses her lips again, gorgeous eyes narrowing before her face flickers from annoyance into something like resigned sadness. Her thumb brushes over his cheekbone and up to the ridge of one eyebrow, before falling to his cheek again.   
  
“One day,” she says. Then her eyes flash to the toaster oven. Wade’s ignored it thus far, filtering out the incessant ticking like it’s background noise and not the countdown to their separation. Death do us part and all that. Wade echoes her, turning his face so he can kiss her palm and inhale the perfume that somehow still lingers on her skin. But he’s forced to open his eyes and glances down at Vanessa again when she catches his chin and turns his head straight.   
  
For such a tiny woman, she is so fucking scary when she means business. He loved that… loves that about her. Vanessa leans into the barrier, standing on her tippy toes still, and looks Wade dead in the eyes.   
  
“One day. I promise, Wade. But for now, I don’t want to see you here more than I have to, okay?”   
  
She softens again and her hand resumes its caressing. Wade leans into the barrier too, palms flat against it and pretends he can feel her pressed up against him.   
  
“Try, okay, baby? For me? And him… Give it a shot for him.”

Wade opens his mouth, to clarify or offer retort or something, but of course the damned fucking toaster oven chimes. He’s yanked away by an invisible hand, catapulted through time and space and realms until he finds his body again. Or, rather, slams back into it at full speed to become reacquainted with it’s miserable, cancer-ridden existence.

_Owwwieeee_ …

Pain always comes back first, after episodes like this. Wade lives in pain, scales of pain, grades of pain, types of pain. But what was tight, pulling agony before now settles into a dull throb beneath the skin, pulsing in time to his heartbeat and the ever shifting scars. That’s okay. Wade can live with this type of pain; it’s a bruise on the cusp of healing and easily ignored. Smell comes back next, hearing not long after it. Sensation is always last, muted by layers of scar tissue and frayed nerve endings. Yet Wade doesn’t need to feel to know he isn’t in the alley anymore. There’s no reek of garbage and weeks old piss. There’s no ever present whoosh of passing cars, no shriek of sirens or constant babble of voices from hundreds of passing pedestrians. Sure, he can hear the traffic in the distance, but you always can in New York. And now there’s soft cologne and fabric softener and human skin close by. Now there’s a solid, familiar weight thrown across his chest.

Wade opens his eyes and wishes he hadn’t. Everything is off white walls - _cream_ , White Box mutters - sensible and stylish IKEA furnishings, a desk lamp on the nightstand that he really fucking hates, and great, the fucking teddy bear. Realization stabs into his eyeballs like he’s personally offended it.  
  
**Ah, shitballs** . That’d be Yellow. You’ve met them before, haven’t you?   
  
Ah fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-fuckity-shit-motherfucker.   
  
_Not helping._ That’s White again, sounding more grumbly and irritated than a fucking metaphor for a stupid voice in his head - that is not his own thank you - has any right to be.   
  
**You’re not helping!** Yellow retorts. Wade rolls his eyes at them, internally. He can drown them out too, if he tries, and right now he’s really trying because neither of them are helping. Not in the slightest. And the best way to do that is… well… Wade isn’t sure. But he starts by rolling his head over to one side and opening his eyes again. That’s a mistake, though, surely, because Wade discovers the familiar weight on his chest is actually a fucking metal arm and its owner currently lays stomach-down in the bed with Wade, face all smushed up against a pillow. Really brings out his wrinkles, that position, Wade thinks. The boxes agree.

The fact that Nate’s thrown his left arm across Wade also means his left eye is the one staring Wade down. The lens flickers as the warm sunshine fades in and out of existence, playing peekaboo with the clouds. Right now, when it’s not doing his weird glow-y thing, that reflection is the only thing that gives Nate’s eye away as being artificial. It looks as normal and hazel - **and beautiful!** \- as the other.

Wade realizes he’s staring. But Nate started it, so it’s okay. Staring contests are normal, sometimes, in this household. What isn’t normal is the heavy, expectant silence. The sort of silence that has claws which dig under Wade’s scars and get to the very meat of him, make him itch and twitch and wish desperately to be somewhere else. Or dead.

_Cross that option off the list,_ White grouses.    
  
So Wade does what he does best, and shatters the silence.  
  
“I didn’t do it in the house.”   
  
Because, despite common belief Wade is not a total asshole all the time and he doesn’t make a bigger mess than necessary. So when the gotta-die itch overwhelmed him, he’d done them both a favour and took himself out back. But you know what they say about hindsight. Wade now realizes with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t exactly left a note, either. Or told anyone. And he might have also snuck one of Nate’s smaller futuristic pistols out too.   
  
**Oops** .   
  
Maybe that’s why Nate’s so upset. The silence returns, as heavy and brooding as before. And Nate, the dick, lets it hang like a corpse after execution, leaving Wade to squirm and wriggle in discomfort. The itch in his trigger finger returns.   
  
“C’mon, not even a little smile?”   
  
Gotta distract himself. Gotta do something. Wade reaches out and takes hold of Nate’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. Nate’s got nice hands, thick but deceptively dexterous fingers and calluses to match Wade’s. Well… on the flesh hand. On this hand, there are tiny little calipers and joints that hiss and whirr when Wade moves each finger separately and metal skin that gives a little when you apply force.   
  
Nate doesn’t smile. Hell, Wade might even think he were dead if he couldn’t track the steady, even rise and fall of Nate’s back as he breathes. It’s like sharing a bed with a living, breathing animatron, which in Wade’s humble opinion is so much worse than sharing it with a recently dead person.

Wade lets out a deep, unhappy groan. He squeezes Nate’s hand, scratching his index finger against those calipers and joints to try and relieve the itch. ‘Nessa’s words are still too fresh for him to give into it just yet, and besides, it would probably make whatever the hell this is with Nate even worse.

Give it a shot for _him_ . The only _him_ that matters like that in Wade’s life is Nate. He who pretends he’s dead, giving Wade the silent treatment and the thousand yard stare across the double mattress.

“Time to bring out the big guns,” Wade mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. He lets go of Nate’s hand and heaves himself onto his knees. The room spins for half a second, but when it rights he crawls across the mattress, hooks his arms under Nate and bodily hauls him up. For such a short guy, he’s fucking heavy. Wade grunts and braces himself for impact before flipping them over. Nate lands on his chest, knees between Wade’s thighs, dead weight. 

“Fucking christ,” Wade wheezes, “What are you, a whale?” He expects to be punched in the face for that, but Nate surprises him.   
  
**Nate’s always surprising you!**   
  
Warm arms surge around Wade, shoving themselves under his armpits and caging Wade in muscle and metal. Nate tucks his face in Wade’s throat, nose to pulse point and lips mashed against the outer ridge of a scar. That’s when Wade gets the inkling that he has, in fact, well and truly upset Nate.   
  
Which is weird, because Nate’s used to violence and gore. He dishes it out as good as Wade does, when he wants to, even if it usually involves a Big Fucking Gun and combat knives instead of bullet holes and katana. Wade totally jumped his bones the time Nate threw a knife and nailed a human trafficker straight between the eyes. Except, he supposes, there’s a difference between eviscerating baddies with your fuck-buddy and finding said fuck-buddy with his brains blown all over the alley behind your apartment. And Wade’s been around Nate long enough to have memorized the “I don’t like my people getting hurt” speil and recite it at any given moment. He also supposes _he_ is one of those people, even if he doesn’t deserve to be.

**We fucked up big time, didn’t we?** Yellow sounds a little nervous. White doesn’t dignify them with a response, just  a snort. A snort which sounds suspiciously like Nate’s. 

The prickle of anxiety creeping up Wade’s spine somehow connects directly to his trigger finger. Wade suddenly wants out. He wants to get away, get-away-get-away-get-away…  
  
“Easy,” Nate whispers, rough like he hasn’t spoken in a long time. Probably hasn’t. Wade doesn’t know how long he was out or how long they’ve been laying here. He loses time here and there. That’s why he’s got his Adventure Time watch.   
  
Wade stops wriggling and inhales until his lungs feel like they’re going to burst. Then he lets it out in a huff that comes across more petulant than he wants it to be. His heart thuds too fast, in time to the heavy mantra of _upset Nate, upset Nate, upset Nate_ .   
  
Even the boxes get in on it, stomping their metaphorical feet and chanting in time to Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” Christ, it’s basically like the Hulk is inside his skull, bashing his fists against Wade’s braincase.   
  
“Easy,” Nate murmurs again, “‘m not mad.”   
  
Stupid fucking telepath. Bullshit about not being able to read Wade’s mind. He totally can read Wade’s mind. Wade sets his jaw just for Nate to feel it.   
  
“‘M not. Promise… You just… Didn’t leave a note and I didn’t know where you were, Wade.”   
  
Wade snorts, rolling onto his side because Nate really is fucking heavy and the oxygen deprivation is getting to his brain. The bed squeaks when Nate lands and again when he bounces a little. They separate, enough that Wade can crane his head down and look into both those hazel eyes for the first time today.   
  
“ _You_ weren’t supposed to be home until later.”   
  
Great, now he’s making accusations. Nate’s nose wrinkles and his lips twist. It’s really too fucking cute, especially on a fifty year old futuristic cyborg.

_He doesn’t like that_ , White sing-songs. Wade’s still ignoring them though, stupid boxes. 

“Yeah, well, wanted to surprise you. Got done early.” He says it all resigned and grumpy, the first few words more of a grunt than actual, you know, words. Wade’s heart does that weird pinching thing in his chest again and his stomach flip flops worse than that time he got food poisoning from questionably cooked chimichangas.   
  
_Surprise you_. Yeah, Nate was the one who got as surprise. And not the fun, puppy-in-a-box-for-Christmas kind. Guilt tastes bitter on Wade’s tongue and the shame hurts. Guilt and shame and guiltandshameandguilt - stupid fucking brain and stupid fucking healing factor and stupid fucking Wade Wilson and -

“ _Wade_.”

Shit. “Was I projecting?”

**Yup**.

_Definitely_ .   
  
“Yeah,” Nate mutters. His eyes clench shut and his lips twist into a grimace like he’s just eaten some super sour lemons. Then he huffs through his nose and his whole body goes limp. Nate’s face goes limp too, unhappy frown lines smoothing and the furrow between his eyes easing.   
  
“Just… I don’t know… Leave a note next time? Tell me? Tell somebody?”   
  
Yeah, like that would go over well. Wade snorts, which earns him a sharp glare and ooh, flashy eye is back online. Nate’s face screws up into a frown again before he forcibly relaxes it. Playing the diplomat, a bitter part of Wade - surprisingly not either of his boxes - mutters. But at least Nate’s smart. Nate, unlike other shiny metal people in Wade’s life, doesn’t ask him to ignore the _gotta die_ itch. Nate doesn’t do stupid things like hide all of Wade’s weaponry unless he’s asked and certainly won’t baby-sit him 24/7. He might not _like_ it - not that Wade likes it either, thanks for asking - but he at least accepts that this is Wade right now and this is how Wade deals with things.

Wade likes that. 

Nate sighs again and cocks the brow with the slit through it. There’s something like a tiny smile hiding in the shadows of his features.   
  
“You listening to me, doofus?”   
  
“Uh… You were talking?”   
  
Wade finally earns his exasperated huff and the crooked grin he likes so much. Nate rolls his eyes and repeats himself.   
  
“‘M just worried that someone will take advantage of you when you’re like that.”

**Take advantage? Necrophilia? Kinky!**

_Not like that, you dumb fuck._ Oh god, White Box is totally starting to sound like Nate. Wade has obviously been spending wayyyy too much time with him. Not that he minds.

But Wade resolves himself to continue ignoring the boxes. So he throws a hand over his heart and, as dramatically as he can, throws himself onto his back. He crows, “Aww! Sugar-bear! See, I knew you cared about me! Were you worried that some homeless person would cut me into pieces and sell them on the black market? Hey, do you think that if they cut off my dick it would grow back a whole new Deadpool? What- mmph!”  
  
Nate whacks him over the head with a pillow, shoving the pillowcase into his mouth. Above his own struggling, Wade can make out Nate muttering, “Of course I care, you fucking overgrown vibrator! Although sometimes I wonder why.”   
  
**Hey! That’s mean!** ****  
  
Wade fights off the pillow and tosses it back at Nate, nailing him with it and then a half-hearted punch to the sternum.   
  
“Overgrown vibrator? You sure you aren’t talking about yourself? Don’t think I don’t know you shove that whole god-damned arm up your ass in the shower and turn it on high, mister!”   
  
Things get worse - better? Definitely better - Things get better from there. A few pillows get shredded, they fall onto the floor punching and kicking and kneeing and insulting each other. Their next-door-neighbour screams at them through the wall about calling the cops (again). It’s great.

And later, they stuff themselves full of really, really good take out and curl up together watching a really, really bad movie. It’s then that, when the tension has faded from Nate’s shoulders and the itch in Wade’s trigger finger eases to something he can forget, Wade tosses his arm around Nate’s shoulders and tugs him in for a smooch. It has some tongue - Wade even gets the chunk of bean sprout stuck in Nate’s teeth free. The grossed out sound Nate makes is totally worth it.   
  
Wade settles his forehead against Nate’s, their noses bumping and lips just an inch or so apart. Nate’s eyes are soft and hazel right now, though the light from the TV flickers inhuman in the left.   
  
“‘M gonna try, okay?” Wade says, “‘M gonna give it a shot.”   
  
A shot at not blowing his brains out when he misses Vanessa, he means. Nate gets that. His lips twitch up into a tiny smile that starts out as only lip then graduates to teeth too. He huffs, soft and amused and kisses Wade with fond affection.   
  
“You really need to work on how you word things.”   
  
Oh… Yeah, poor choice there, right? But Nate’s forgiven him already, because he lowers his head and rests it on Wade’s chest so his hair just tickles Wade’s chin. Cheek to ratty old Marine’s shirt; Wade wonders if Nate’s listening to his heart beat.   
  
He doesn’t really say anything out loud about Wade’s proclamation, but that’s okay. He knows Nate well enough to know what he means when he slips a hand under Wade’s shirt to caress the knotted skin where a bullet once - didn’t go in. Knows enough to know what he means when he strokes over Wade’s heart. And what he means when he tweaks a nipple, just to be an ass.   
  
_Thank you. I’m glad you’re here with me_.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Kudos if you know where the opening line of the summary is from xD


End file.
